


Lions and Lambs

by ByronicHeroics



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:28:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByronicHeroics/pseuds/ByronicHeroics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written to fill the kink_meme prompt "Abigail is rude. Hannibal disciplines her."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lions and Lambs

Abigail’s eyes had widened when she realized that Hannibal was nothing but serious about punishing his foster daughter. At this point, she should have realized he was always serious when it came to how he cared for his chosen family. It seemed as if it would spare her so much grief to accept that. Unfortunately, it would have also taken away the feeling of being able to tease a lion that she had on occasion, when she dared to push the man just a bit too far. Abigail thought that Twilight had it all wrong; the lion always had to taste the lamb… 

Hannibal rolled his sleeves up strong arms neatly as he waited for her to move forward, expression so perfectly unreadable. She couldn’t imagine what other option he pretended that she had than to do so. It certainly wasn’t to leave this sick and confusing world behind, or even to protest the pseudo-incestuous attraction they all share, because some sick masochistic part of her wanted to know what would happen. So she stepped forward obediently, uncomfortable new heels clicking against the tile of the bathroom floor.

Those yet to be scuffed heels were what found her in this position. Whenever she showered and Will was home, he put out a nice warm towel for her like she imagined a normal foster father might. Will was the father that could be trusted, if there was such a thing. He was predictable in so many ways. Yet, Hannibal could also be predictable, because when he was the only one home, he always put out a new outfit for her. It was titillating yet shameful, because it was coordinated down to the gauzy white polka dot panties that ruffled so flirtingly around her thighs. Every garment had always been beautiful in its own right; airy, feminine and befitting of a Vogue fashion shoot. 

However, this time it was a very youthful Vogue fashion shoot. 

At first she had caressed her own breasts through the matching brassiere, tantalized by the way the fabric had teased across her nipples. It had made her feel like a woman to wear the delicate matching negligee he chose, and she had examined herself in a new light in front of the mirror for a long moment. Thin champagne colored stockings encased her thighs in ways she had never considered her own, before Hannibal’s guardianship. She had always been the girl who had preferred to hide behind a book than to socialize, and she had never really felt herself make the transition from girl to woman before this. She had never had to. 

So to pick up the newest article of clothing had felt like a struggle; how could Hannibal tease her with that step forward only to make her fall back again? He was psychiatrist; he had to know what he was doing! The newest dress was made of flirty cream chiffon and lace, with a ribbon tied under the curve of her breasts and a skirt that flowed neatly down to mid thigh. It made her feel like some picture book Victorian child from one of Hannibal’s beloved art books, and she loathed the thought. She might not have felt like a grown woman before, but now she simply felt like a child.

She had to kneel down to buckle the straps of the heels, and Jimmy Choo or not, they felt like mockery when the lace trim of her skirt tickled her thigh. That’s what she should have told him, when he had slowly brushed out her hair to expertly braid with skillful fingers. She should have said that it made her feel as if he were teasing her, because what she had said instead had made him pause. It was more slapping a lion than teasing it, when he had to find his words, and that meant she had gone much too far.

“That was very rude, Abigail. Vulgarity is an unbecoming trait in a young woman.” Hannibal had said then and that was how she had found herself in this situation. He took her chin in his hand now and looked down over her silently. His gaze was considering, as if he were truly pondering his next action and hadn’t told her exactly what she was to expect. It made her heartbeat speed to be under that scrutiny and she parted glossy lips anxiously to remind him of his warning. It was to encourage him not to pursue any others. He slid his thumb ever so slowly across the curve of her bottom lip, as if in agreement, before turning his attention to the sink.

Hannibal dampened a soft washcloth under the warm flow of the faucet, carefully rubbing it with a fragrant violet soap then. The familiar scent filled the bathroom and for a moment Abigail wondered if it would taste like the perfume that it smelled so strongly of; the perfume that she so uniquely associated with the new family that she had found. The answer was soon discovered to be ‘not at all’ as Hannibal let his fingers slide past her lips, covered by the cloth. The soap stung her tongue hotly and the flavor was bitter and harsh, but she didn’t dare to do anything but part her lips further. 

Hannibal’s fingers slid slowly around her mouth as if sensually caressing the insides of the girl’s cheeks and her tongue with the punishing flavor. It was uncomfortable, yet so desperately erotic to be touched in that way and Abigail almost found that she enjoyed it. She exhaled softly in near disappointment when the fingers vanished but the washcloth remained. Her foster-father tapped her chin ever so gently to encourage her to close her mouth around the fabric, and once more she obeyed. When he turned her to face the mirror she was struck with embarrassment at the scene; it felt like a horrible set up.

Here Abigail was, dressed like a porcelain doll with the doctor gazing on her in reserved interest; he was enjoying her punishment. She groaned and he spoke again. “You have been a very naughty girl, Abigail. The discomfort which you are feeling is not dissimilar to the discomfort which your choice in language causes others.” He scolded, and despite the fear the words sent through her, she couldn’t help but feel another surge of excitement. The man guided her to bend forward to brace herself against the sink and her heart thudded at her breast when a hand came to rest low on her back.

Hannibal’s hand rose in the air and the first strike against her backside made her groan past the burning sensation of the cloth. Again and again, his palm came down against the curve of her bottom hard enough to make her cry out. She twisted on her toes, hands gripping the cool marble countertop and eyes closing tightly. All she could smell was the violet scent against her tongue and so her frustrated tears took on that form. Each burst of pain made her imagine another flower blooming instead of a tear falling, and each throb of interest against her womanhood was easier to ignore for that.

Abigail’s disassociation worked till Hannibal’s fingers found her dampness, slippery and shameful against her inner thighs. She was coming completely undone, face hot with indignity, dark eyes damp with tears and body showing the ultimate betrayal to her now. She had never meant to be found out; never wanted to be proven even more of a monster. The cloth in her mouth made protesting the idea impossible and muffled the sound of her sobbing. In the reflection of the mirror, Hannibal only smiled.


End file.
